


A bunch of lace at his throat

by imsfire



Series: Ten songs, ten stories [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drabble, F/M, Fancy Dress, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Romance, and more angst and feels, nature heals the destruction of war, second chapter is angst, sexy Cassian dressed up to go undercover, song-inspired fic, third chapter is canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: Chapter one: Cassian is dressed up to the nines for his latest mission; Jyn likes what she sees.Chapter two: Danger in the mountainsChapter three: In time, nature heals the destruction of warChapters are unrelated (3 freestanding mini-fics)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Three short pieces inspired by "The Highwayman" by Loreena McKennitt and Alfred Noyes.

“Now I understand.”

“You understand?”

“Why Quartermaster Verrin said she was looking forward to kitting you out for this mission.”

“Ah.”

He shuffles his feet, looking down. 

His cover in Rostarán City is as a Gentleman of Quality and the briefing specified that this particular gentleman has Secret Farouche Habits; hence the need to visit the Alliance’s contact at her infamous _Salón De Placer_ , and to be clothed in the most elegant high fashion for said visit.  Cassian is dressed in thigh-high boots of black real-leather, polished to a sensuous gloss and worn over close-fitting breeches of deep grey doeskin.  His shirt is blue-grey shimmersilk, with full sleeves that gather to a tight cuff and a ruffle of ivory lace.  There’s lace at his throat as well, and buttoned over the shirt is a long waistcoat, tailored, figure-hugging, of velvet the rich, juicy colour of crushed berries.  Over his right arm he carries a new coat of the same fabric, heavy with embroidery.

He’s been growing his hair out for a couple of months and it and his beard and moustache are all combed and gleaming.  He runs a hand over his head, disturbing the thick, groomed locks; meets Jyn’s eye and gives her a small smile.  “Do I look alright?”

He sounds unsure; but surely, surely, he can tell…

“You look good enough to eat.”

Cassian’s laugh is still a rare thing, even now, little more than a chuckle, and it makes him blush and bend his head.  Her heart flutters every time.  Such an innocent sound, that husky, rusty giggle; like a shy six-year-old, still there somewhere inside him.

He looks up again through his lashes and blinks both eyes at her disarmingly.  “Well, maybe when I get back…”

“Oh, you can count on it.”


	2. Then her finger moved in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild shot rings out in the darkness...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. "The Highwayman" is a rich vein, and it's kept on giving; but despite the fluffiness of that first drabble, it is a pretty tragic story, and drabble no 2 is correspondingly angsty. Unconnected to no 1 or no 3.

There’s a shot, up ahead in the gathering dusk, just when he’d thought it was all clear to move down through the rocks into the meet-up site; and in the next instant, ‘troopers come pouring out from every gully, and gunfire pours forth with them.  Cassian knows when to acknowledge his limitations; he runs without a second thought. 

It’s only when he’s back at the ship, and the wait for Jyn to appear has dragged on past sunset and into night, that he suddenly wonders where that first wild shot came from, that roused the soldiers lying in wait, and warned him of the trap…


	3. Still of a winter's night, they say...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scarif was the site of a decisive early battle in the First Great War, two hundred years ago. But the ocean has healed the wounds in the face of the world...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third short fic from Song no 2, "The Highwayman"; canon-compliant, I'm afraid, though I hope it comes across as a hopeful spin, in a way...

There’s a story goes around the tour groups, about the diving hole.  Supposedly it’s haunted.

The brochures all mention that Scarif was the site of a decisive early battle in the First Great War, two hundred years ago.  A massive installation here was supposedly destroyed by laser fire from space, fire so intense it blasted a vast hole in the planet’s crust and left a pit a mile deep for the ocean to flood into.  Some of the atolls nearby still bear fragmentary ruins poking through their silvery sand, walls and foundations, ancient foamstone and salt-corroded durasteel. 

But the ocean has healed the wound in the face of the world, has re-seeded life into the great void and the flooded wreckage and broken rock surrounding it.  Everyone who visits the beautiful ocean world dives the famous Blue Hole of Scarif if they can.

In the bright surface waters shoals of pink gill-fish, millions strong, shimmer and dart; sun-yellow giant finners cut through them, snapping their wide jaws to left and right in search of a meal.  Scarif sea-turtles sway by, hugely graceful, slow-dancing with the currents.  Beneath, where the blue tones grow still darker and the upwelling salt water is still richer, the ragged rocky walls of the Hole are clad with pearl-corals and sea-stars, delicate weeds and water-grasses; and there are fish and invertebrates everywhere, darting and swimming, scuttling and bobbing, hiding away or sauntering brazenly by on fins the colour of old bronze. 

The ghost story probably goes back to the first tourists; back to when there was just one bar, on the oddly-named Atoll Nine, with a long board terrace looking towards the sunset.  Supposedly, the story goes, sometimes on winter nights when the sun is sinking low and the moon is rising like a ghost-ship in the sky, if you look carefully you will see them, right on the edge of your field of vision.  The soldiers who fought and died here, who saved the galaxy and left their mortal remains to the ocean.  The great blue ocean that has mended the destruction of war. 

Some people see just one figure, some see more, dozens, hundreds even, a small army, enemies and friends alike running through the ghostly sand.  But most of the tales report just two, a man and a woman, standing together, looking into the sunset.

They gaze out at the living sea and you can almost see them smile, these ghosts of Scarif.  Their eyes are peaceful now.  So the storytellers say.


End file.
